


Carol of the Narcissist and the Naysayer

by thesexfiles



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Absolutely Plotless, Christmas Fluff, F/M, First Time, Frottage, Jewish Mulder, Post-Episode: s06e06 How the Ghosts Stole Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-14 16:52:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9194273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesexfiles/pseuds/thesexfiles
Summary: Silence is as common between them as conversation, as natural. She has watched him think, sleep, cry, eat, laugh. She has even caught him in his own version of a prayer, silently staring up at a moonless sky. She’s a patient woman, even at a crossroads. It is one of her greatest strengths. It is, she worries, her hamartia.





	1. Chapter 1

She turns on the radio while driving home and flips through the channels, trying to find a station that isn’t playing Christmas music. Unsuccessful, she settles for a silent drive through the suburbs of D.C.

Physically, she’s tired, but existentially, she’s so beyond the point of exhaustion that she’s looped back around to an energetic waking state. She doesn’t remember what it means to have a full night of sleep, but she won’t be rediscovering that feeling tonight. She looks at the pile of unwrapped packages in her front seat and groans. This is what she gets for putting off Christmas shopping.

She puts on a pot of coffee as soon as she gets home and turns the TV on for background noise while she wraps presents. _A Christmas Carol_ is playing, an old black and white version. It’s close to 1:00. She has five hours before she’s expected at her mother’s house with a bushel of gifts.

She drinks her coffee with the resignation of one who has given up on sleep altogether (which she has). She has always had steady hands, was always the one her family members called on to assist with gift wrapping. She gets most of her pile wrapped in record speed, and then her eyes fall on the smallest package on the pile. She’d forgotten she bought it, at a yard sale of all places, but she grabs it and wraps it now before she can have any second thoughts.

When she arrives at Mulder’s apartment, the lie that comes out is that she couldn’t sleep. She sees that he’s still wearing his leather jacket and surmises that his attempts at sleep have been half-hearted at best. She has no idea what time it is, and when he asks her if she should be unwrapping presents with her family, the question flies right by her. It’s still dark out, not a sign of sun coming up soon. Her presents are waiting for her in the car, wrapped, so she has nowhere else to be between now and 6:00am.

Now that she’s here, she’s not sure how to proceed. The words of the woman in the old house echo in her ear and she tells Mulder, awkwardly, apologetically, that proving him wrong is not her only joy in life.

“When have you proved me wrong?” he says with a smile. A joke, she’s sure, but it gives her pause.

“Well, why else would you want me out there with you?” she asks him. She was assigned six years ago to prove him wrong, and even though their partnership has developed, she likes to think they share an understanding of the kind of balance they provide for each other.

“You didn’t want to be there?” he asks her.

Didn’t she? She could be in bed right now, could have said no to him and left without another word beyond “Merry Christmas,” could have wrapped her presents and had a glass of wine and a bath and enjoyed a night off. She could have forgone the coffee and tried to sleep for a few hours instead of coming here. Why is she here, if not because she wants to be here?

“That’s, um… self-righteous and narcissistic of me to say, isn’t it?” Mulder says.

“No, I mean… maybe I did want to be out there with you,” Scully admits. Mulder smiles at her, and his eyes catch her lips. How many times has she caught him looking at her like this and said and done nothing? She looks away, grimaces at her own cowardice, but Mulder is already walking past her. 

“I know we said we weren’t going to exchange gifts, but I got you a little something,” he says, grinning at her. She notes the cylindrical shape of the gift and smiles slyly at him, both excited and afraid that it might be what she suspects it is. How apropos, considering the contents of the wrapped box she has been hiding in her coat pocket. If Fox Mulder has gifted her a sex toy… Well, it’s unscientific to jump to conclusions.

“You unwrap yours first,” he says, eager like a little boy who’s just seen Santa Claus. She smiles and ducks her head, nervously peeling back the red and green paper. Inside is a paper towel roll. She looks at him questioningly. 

“Look inside,” he says. “I didn’t have any boxes, so I had to improvise.”

“Clever,” she says as she reaches a finger into the cylinder and pulls out a watch, sleek and gold. “Oh, Mulder!” She doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s, ahh,” he says. “It’ll match your cross. It was my aunt’s.”

“It’s beautiful,” Scully says, marveling at how personal, how intimate this gift is. The watch is small and simple, a white face set on a slim gold band. She is so particular about jewelry, but this design suits her perfectly.

He seems embarrassed about the gesture and adds, “And when I call you outside of work hours you always say, ‘Don’t you know what time it is?’ so I thought this would help you keep track.”

She laughs and wraps the band around her wrist. His hands meet hers, helping her with the clasp. It’s late, she thinks, but she doesn’t bother checking her new watch for the time. Who knows if it’s properly wound yet anyway.

“This is such a thoughtful gift, Mulder,” she says. “I’m a little…embarrassed to hand over mine now.”

“A little too late for that,” he says cheekily, shaking the box in his hands. She holds her breath as he tears off the paper to find…

“ _Deep Throat_ ,” he says. She hears amusement, not disappointment in his voice. “How did you know?”

She grins despite how red she has suddenly gone in the face and says, “It’s the first edition released to VHS. From the late 70s.”

“Vintage,” he says. “Vintage porn.”

She feels the need to explain herself. “I know you have your…video collection, so I thought you would find this a worthy addition. I should have taken gift-giving a little more seriously.”

“No, Scully.” He sets down the VHS and puts his hands on her shoulders. “This is an amazing gift. We both said we weren’t going to get each other anything anyway. This is definitely more than I could have asked for.”

They both sit back, admiring their gifts. After a comfortable silence, Mulder says, “Actually, normally, I’d pop this in the player right now to make sure it works.”

Scully smiles wryly at him. “You know, those people at that house said a lot of strange things.”

“Like what?”

“They told me you were deeply disturbed.”

“But you already knew that.”

She smiles at him more kindly. “That old man, Maurice. He told me, right before you shot me -”

“- I _didn’t_ shoot you -”

“- that you had a deep-seated terror of being alone,” she finishes. 

“Well, Scully, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t,” Mulder says. She shrugs at him.

“I guess you’re right, Mulder. I mean, it’s crucial to our survival as a species, to find a partner and mate for life. I can’t think of what kind of a person who doesn’t feel that need. It’s primal, essential.”

“Are you afraid of being alone?” he asks her. She watches his eyes once again flit to her lips. 

“I…” she says, hesitating. His eyes meet hers once more and the truth comes out. “Of course I am.”

She watches him close his eyes, drop his head. Silence is as common between them as conversation, as natural. She has watched him think, sleep, cry, eat, laugh. She has even caught him in his own version of a prayer, silently staring up at a moonless sky. She’s a patient woman, even at a crossroads. It is one of her greatest strengths. It is, she worries, her hamartia.

“The old woman, Lyda, said something that made me think,” he says after a time.

“What?” She sits forward, looking at him not looking at her.

He finally opens his eyes again. “That we should have discussed our real feelings before entering that house.”

They fall back into silence, this time less easy. She’s a patient woman, but she cannot wait forever for a response to come to her. He looks at her, so naked, and she fights the urge to laugh or to run. Instead she says:

“Maybe we should have."

 


	2. Chapter 2

Would this have happened sooner if she’d just said something? If she’d bought him a pornographic VHS earlier into their partnership? If she’d quit ignoring his stolen glances to her lips sooner on and made him put his money where his mouth is?

“Mulder,” she says, turning her head and opening her eyes. His mouth crashes against her jaw, undeterred from having missed its mark. In the last three and a half minutes (or so she assumes without having looked at her new watch), she has learned that Fox Mulder is a very good kisser. “Mulder!”

He stops kissing her, sits back, peels off his jacket. She’s feeling a little hot, herself. “We still haven’t actually _discussed_ our feelings,” she says.

He looks at her with eyes half-lidded. She doesn’t know if it’s exhaustion or desire. Knowing them, it’s a healthy mix of the two.

“What’s there to say?” he says, leaning forward to kiss her again. She gently pushes him back with one hand, and he obliges.

“Plenty, Mulder. I can’t deny that I’m…attracted to you,” she says, “but we work together. That complicates matters. Besides that, we’re both tired and probably feeling a little more sentimental than normal because it’s Christmas. Are we thinking rationally?”

“Well, I’m Jewish, so it’s definitely not Christmas sentimentality on my end,” Mulder says, putting his hands up. “My thoughts have been clear as air since Hanukkah ended last week.”

Scully laughs. “You don’t even celebrate Hanukkah.”

“Exactly. So I’m thinking as rationally as anyone who doesn’t have any major winter holidays to stress out over.”

He smiles at her and her stomach twists. She has wanted this, wanted him, for so long, and denied that want every time it resurfaced. Now here he is, offering himself to her, lips wet and red as poinsettias.

“Can it really be this easy?” she wonders aloud. Her hand finds his, their fingers interlace. She sits back and exhaustion hits her. Physical, existential. They have both been running for so long. To sit in silence like this and really ponder their future together is to lose all momentum and collapse. And yet here she is, and here he is, and if they allow themselves to collapse now, it is into each other. 

“Scully, you know so many things,” says Mulder. “You know Beethoven from Bach. You know the name of every bone in the human body. You know how to listen and what to say. How is it that you don’t know how easy this could be?”

Scully sighs. “It’s never been easy for me, Mulder. I’m 34 years old and the most serious relationship I’ve ever had was with a married professor. I don’t know how to do it.”

“You say that like our relationship up to this point has been fun and games,” Mulder says. She can’t tell if he’s serious or not, only that he’s looking at her with an intensity he usually reserves for the stars.

“That’s not what I mean, Mulder.” She shifts her body toward him, crosses her legs underneath her so she can see him. So she can let herself be looked at. “You know what I meant.”

“Well… I guess the question is whether we allow our relationship to reflect our feelings, or if we continue working strictly in a professional manner,” he says. She’s surprised by his pragmatism, although it’s been a long time since she’s considered their relationship strictly professional. Strictly professional would be calling only during office hours, no lingering touches, no roundabout scenic drives on their way to investigate a case. Strictly professional ended the day she dropped her robe so he could check her lower back for supposed alien death spots. Strictly professional lasted for a day, and they’ve been running together in limbo ever since.

"How do you feel?” Scully asks. “What do you want?”

“I don’t think there’s any question of what I want,” he says sadly. She furrows her brows, tries to find the source of his sobriety. Has he already given up on her? When she just spent the last few minutes practically in his lap, her tongue in his mouth?

She uncrosses her legs. Leans into him and plants a soft kiss on his lips, her hand coming to rest on the back of his neck.

"It isn’t my only pleasure in life,” she says, “to prove you wrong.”

She crawls onto his lap, straddling his legs. Biology is funny. She knows she can’t conceive, and yet her body still wants. From an evolutionary standpoint, an infertile woman had no need for the continued production of hormones, pheromones. And here she is, wanting him. She sits up on her knees and looks into his eyes, waiting for a response.

“Will it change the way we work together?” Mulder says. “If we do this?”

“Probably,” Scully says, running her fingers through the short cropped strands of hair at the base of his scalp. His legs shift under her. “No.”

“No?” he repeats.

“Well, it’s not like this is casual for either of us.” She watches his chest rise and fall, a silent breath of relief.

“I don’t want to assume anything,” he says. “I’ve made plenty of assumptions about how you feel and what you want without asking you.”

“You can assume I’m not going to just fuck you and then ask for a transfer,” Scully says. “Mulder, you’re my best friend. And I… I do love you.” She grimaces at how young the words sound coming from her, how clumsy. But the beaming smile Mulder gives her washes all her self-doubt away. 

"The truth comes out,” he says. 

She’s mid-”shut up, Mulder” when he kisses her, pulling her to him with his fingertips in her hair, cupping her face.

He doesn’t need to say it now; he’ll say it another time. His lips are put to better practice kissing hers. Truth be told, she’s known he loved her long before she ever realized the feeling was mutual.

The song from the grocery store, the one she can recall from every midnight mass and every caroling trip, plays in her head now as she kisses him back. _Silent night_. Her tongue slides along his. They’ve always found just as much comfort in silence as in speech. Just as much tension. The only sound in the room is her breath mingling with his. She breathes him in like an animal, presses a kiss to his neck and licks off some of the sweat that has accumulated there.

_Holy night_. His hands grip her thighs. She presses down onto him. She’s always pressing him for hard evidence, and here she has it between her legs. He wants this just as much as she does. Wants her. Butterflies rise up in her stomach. Did she ever think this was really going to happen? Did she ever think she would let it?

_All is calm_. Her heart pounds against his chest. She begins to grind her hips, growing frantic. Their kisses turn sloppy, two open mouths panting in unison. His fingernails lightly scratch along her side, drawing goosebumps.

_All is bright_. The only light illuminating the room is the streetlight outside of Mulder’s window. A sliver of moonlight hits his face, and he stares at her with reverence. They move together, fully clothed, like teenagers on his couch.

“Is this okay?” she whispers. She means this, this desperate act of frottage. She could take off her shirt, could lead him to his bedroom, but she’s so tired and this admission of love was so poorly planned. If she’d thought she was coming here tonight for this, she’d have taken a shower, shaved, changed into nicer underwear. She’s not physically prepared for sex tonight. “I mean, tonight I don’t think…”

“This is great,” he pants. “This is…”

He can’t finish his sentence, a fact that turns her on even more. She hasn’t dry-humped since she was probably 17, but she doesn’t have it in her to be embarrassed about it. He is rock-hard between her legs, his hands gripping her hips to push her down on him harder. She adjusts her legs, finds the right angle that will make this actually happen for her. Begins to let out quiet moans, little breaths of encouragement.

It’s quick and sloppy, the way they move together, they way they kiss. The rise and fall, the way he kisses her neck and whispers, “come on, Scully, yes” and palms her ass. She grows louder, her voice joining the rusting sound of cloth rubbing against cloth and his own quiet breaths, puncturing this otherwise silent night. She clutches his shoulders when she comes, rocking herself against him with every wave that rocks through her body.

Now she is whispering, “Come on, Mulder,” her fingers at the nape of his neck again, pulling his hair. For once, he does what she tells him to do, coming with a shudder. She watches his face, the look of concentration she’s seen so many times applied to this primal act. The way his eyes close and his mouth opens. She watches a dark wet spot appear at the front of his jeans.

Now that they’ve finished, she doesn’t know what to do. She’s never been good at this part, which is probably why she’s had so few (okay, one) one-night stands. How long does she stay like this, her legs beginning to cramp on either side of his? Is Mulder a cuddler, and is there room for that on his couch?

He saves her from having to make a decision on what to do. “Uhm, I’m going to go clean myself up.”

“Okay,” she says, climbing off his lap. It’s been too long for her, and even this will leave her legs stiff and sore tomorrow. Or maybe she’s just getting old. She admires his back as he walks away, unused to the strangeness of being allowed to openly look at him without fearing he’ll see her checking him out. It’s liberating. It’s terrifying.

She sinks into the couch and waits for him, and the exhaustion returns. She closes her eyes, just for a second. She’ll just doze until he comes back. This really is a very comfortable couch, she thinks. She understands now why he falls asleep on it so often.

“Scully?”

Bleary-eyed, she lifts her head, disoriented. “Hm?”

"Uh, you fell asleep.”

She opens her eyes fully. It’s still dark out, but that means nothing. The short days make it impossible to tell what time it is. “What time is it?” she asks.

“It’s 5:30,” he says sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I know you said you were due at your mother’s at 6.”

“Shit,” she says, sitting upright. “I have to go.” She looks down at herself, at her work pants and her blazer. She can’t imagine what her hair must look like right now, or her makeup. “I, uh - I have to run home and change.”

“I know,” he says. “Will you call me later?”

He looks so young, so vulnerable. She smiles even though his fragility makes her sad. She works hard to not let any trace of emotion slip through the cracks of her shell, and he wears everything on his face, completely unaware of his own intensity. She loves him, so she loves this about him.

“Of course,” she says, and he follows her to the door. She kisses him chastely, acutely aware of her morning breath but even more aware of the way her lips tingle as she pulls away. “Merry Christmas, Mulder.”

“Merry Christmas, Scully.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Reviews are welcome and appreciated, and you can also leave me a message at my tumblr (thesexfiles)


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